An Attic
By Bree
A mirror stands so alone in this dark room.
The light has forgotten about this decrypt thing
The dust has settled, streaking and destroying the image
A reverberation, nothing can touch nor sing
A window is open off to the side
The shutters long since begged to hide
The mirror can feel the lonely wind
Yet it can no longer see what the wind touches
Is this redemption? Is this punishment for?
It can feel, yet nothing in this attic knows
The light cannot touch it’s glass cover
The wind cannot see it, though it touches it
A cloth draped to the side hides the mirror
Even further than before. But why?
Who forgot to take care of the mirror?
Who ignored its screams or its cry?
Nothing in the attic notices the mirror
The mirror is alone, yet pretends its joy
How can it live through this, asks wind
The mirror has been used like a toy
The mirror’s cloth falls and the attic stares
Dust and darkness cannot only be seen
On the mirror are scars, deep and jagged
Yet nothing knew. Nothing knew of the mirror’s being
The scars, scratches, cuts, knife marks
All along its surface, but also underneath
The cloth and underneath this dark
It’s too late, but now everything sees
The wind follows and touches the mirror
The wind can now see what years have done
The window opens further for the mirror
Dropping its shutters, crashing as a ton
The light snakes through the room and stops
Just next to the mirror.
The light touches the mirror slightly
And the mirror shines ever more brightly
It’s never too late, as the attic knows
Once forgotten yet now around
Once hurt and hidden behind a façade
Yet the mirror is forever found
